


It's Vacation

by topdollarwitch



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), DeepTalks, Established Relationship, F/M, Foursome - F/M/M/M, M/M, Multi, about fucking yr friends, bathtime talks, georgi gets his dream wedding, jean gets his dream fuck, vacation fucking, yuri touches a tit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2019-01-06 20:01:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12217923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/topdollarwitch/pseuds/topdollarwitch
Summary: JJ finally sinks a shot, and turns to Otabek and Yuri, fists and eyebrows raised in triumph. Isabella smirks and pats him on the chest. JJ whoops and makes a show of hip-thrusting to the beat of the music, barely audible in the kitchen. He’s all teeth and crinkled eyes.“I guess he’s cute.” Yuri mutters into Otabek’s ear.Yuri and Otabek and JJ and Isabella have vacation sex in their mid-20's.





	It's Vacation

It starts like this:

"Yuuri… Did you know Beka's into girls?"

Otabek stops before he can round the corner into the living room. The poorly-measured cocktail in his right hand nearly spills over the rim of the cup. He pictures the cherry-red drink splash on the cream carpet like a wound. His mind lingers on why Viktor would ever trust anyone with "Holiday Mules" in a cream-and-eggshell house before registering what he'd heard and why he'd stopped. It's _that_ drunk Yuri. Not the drunk Yuri who sways to the music or barks at others to take shots with him; the one that sits the fuck down, and bumps his knee into yours and pouts until you ask him what’s wrong.

Oh.

"…look at straight porn sometimes. Seriously, it's nothing. I like tits too. It doesn't mean anything."

He's still staring at the shag carpet beneath his feet, but he can see his boyfriend flapping a slender hand in front of his face like he's batting away smoke.

"No no no. He had girlfriend. Before me." Yuri's English is slow and thickly accented. He's drunker than Otabek thought. Otabek can practically see him knit his eyebrows and shake his head with each "no", and then jab at his own chest dramatically. 

Otabek has a moment where he wonders how it's possible that, after this many years, Yuri hasn't realized he's the air, water, and sun of his life. Then he remembers all the other things he'd assumed Yuri just understands and how _that_ went. He realizes, like one does when a certain careful level of intoxication enhances one’s understanding of events, that they may need to work on their communication.

"…fucked an American girl on shrooms in Bali with Chris. I don't care. Like, why should I care if he was with men or women before me? Otabek obviously loves you. The fact that he told you about it means he's comfortable with it. He wants you to be comfortable with it." Yuuri's use of the word 'fuck' is the only indicator that he's been drinking. He isn’t _drunk Yuuri_ yet. He sounds like he's explaining to Yuri why he should eat bananas to prevent leg cramps, or how to take the JR into Fukuoka.

There's silence on the other side of the wall, and Otabek wonders if he should move into the room. Act like he didn't just hear his boyfriend drunkenly voice his relationship insecurities to his coach on New Year's Eve. What time is it? Otabek can hear Tony Bennet coming through the house speakers in the absence of conversation. He knows Yuri is looking down, probably into his drink, searching for a way to argue Yuuri's patient logic, just because that's just what Yuri does.

An electric chime pierces through "Twelve Days of Christmas." The bells on the front door ting as it swings open.

"He-ey? Where the damn party at?"

"Phichit! Where were you?! It's eleven thirty!"

"Fucking Uber! And Minami getting hammered. We put 'im to bed!"

Chris, who allegedly double-teamed an American girl years ago with Viktor, bounds out of the kitchen and past Otabek in a rush of patchouli. He brushes his hand across his back as he goes. As Yuuri moves to greet the guests, his Yuri comes around the corner on his way to the kitchen and is abruptly in front of Otabek. They lock eyes and Yuri falters; his movements hitch, but only for a moment.

He breathes out through his nose and smiles too wide. All white teeth and glittering eyes. He moves to lean in, and stumbles into the wall, too enthusiastic and too drunk to notice. He looks very beautiful.

"You got me a drink? You're perfect." Yuri says, sliding his arm around Otabek's shoulder. He buries his nose behind his ear as he steers them to the foyer, where people are gathering to welcome the rest of the party. He leans in and his mouth brushes Otabek's neck. Yuri smells like his shampoo, sweat, and vodka. "Let's find the champagne after this. This cranberry shit makes my throat hurt."

Hours later, when they've danced and kissed and passed out on a futon under string lights with Viktor and Yuuri's old dog curled up next to them, Otabek decides he needs to bring it up. Sometime. When they're both sober. And when Yuri won't brush it off with a wave of his hand like it's something silly. Sometime.

***

Two months pass, and Otabek is sprawled alone across the same couch back in Viktor and Yuuri's town house. Makkachin wakes up in a scramble of claws on linoleum and jingling tags, and a moment later Yuri is barking at him to _get the fuck down, this is real leather._

Otabek pauses his game and watches the dog tear back into the living room, woof in his direction once, scramble back into the kitchen, woof again. Otabek never had pets growing up, and his aunt in America wouldn’t let an animal into her house.

"Did you give him a kiss for me?" Otabek mutters under his breath as he rises. He wonders how old standard poodles usually live to be.

Yuri is pulling takeout boxes from a plastic bag and arranging them on the counter. "Check it out. They gave us free eggrolls." He snorts as he says it, then smirks as he sets the greasy box on the polished granite. It's the same reaction he has to being mentioned in a gossip article or having his name trend on Twitter.

"Did you get brown rice?"

"We're on vacation. We got _fried_ rice, babe." Yuri wiggles his eyebrows like he's said something racy and stands on his toes to pull heavy ceramic plates from an upper shelf.

"We can eat from the boxes.”

"Look at all this nice shit! It's like…married people shit." Otabek raises an eyebrow as he fills glasses for them. "Not like us kiddos. This is from, like…at least Zara Home."

They sit at the kitchen table like adults. Otabek eats with one hand and clumsily types _‘viktor nikiforov dog’_ into his phone, hmming as Yuri tells him thickly through mouthfuls of glazed chicken about a barrage of texts he received from Yuuko while at the shop.

“Fuckin’ thirty-two years old.” Yuri passes his phone across the table. Viktor, Yuuri, Yuuko, and two younger girls Otabek doesn’t recognize pose in a photo booth, their eyes enhanced to alien proportions and uneven circles of blush stamped on their cheeks. Viktor is in his briefs. “I’m surprised he hasn’t gotten the cops called on him yet.”

“I didn’t know they had…pretty-kura in Hasetsu.”

_“Purikura._ They do by the station. There’s like an arcade.” Yuri snatches his phone back and stuffs an eggroll into his mouth before tapping back a reply. Otabek looks down at Makkachin, who thumps his tail against the floor.

“Do you wanna take the dog for a walk tonight?”

“No. It’s fuckin cold. I wanna take a bath in Vik’s jacuzzi.”

Otabek ponders over whether he should correct Yuri over his liberal use of the word “jacuzzi”. 

“I’ll take her. You get the bath ready.”

***  
Otabek returns in forty-five minutes to find Yuri bent double with his ass in the air, scrubbing the bottom of the deep marble bathtub. His face is red and pinched, and Otabek isn’t sure if it’s from his position or the acrid cleaner he stops to spritz far too close to his face.

“Katsuki probably has one of those surgical masks.”

Yuri jerks up, startled. “Shut up. Go get the robes outta the dryer. There’s clean towels in there too.”

Otabek lingers for a moment. Yuri’s shirt has ridden up, the twin dimples at the small of his back peeking out. 

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer. Pervert.”

But as Otabek stands in front of the dryer and peels the plush robes apart, warm and crackling with static, he feels damp hands slide under his shirt and wrap around his stomach. Yuri’s breath is warm in his ear.

“You must still be cold.” He kisses the shell of Otabek’s ear, where it’s still red from the biting February air. His hands travel down Otabek’s hips, to his jeans, and start unbuttoning them. Otabek leans his head back and cocks an eyebrow. Yuri’s shoulder is bare on his neck.

“I thought you wanted to relax in the ‘jacuzzi’?”

“Yeah. So hurry up.” He kisses Otabek’s neck and reaches for the towels. “Help me choose what shit to put in. Baldy has a bunch of salts.” His voice is light, a contrast to a few minutes before. Yuri pulls back and bunches the towels and his robe under one arm. He takes Otabek by the hand and leads him through the house to the bathroom, threading their fingers together. It’s intimate. Otabek wonders if Yuri has a favor to ask, the kind of favor that needs to be coated in sweet gestures and touches that promise something more. But it’s hard to tell, because with Yuri a shift from scowling to glancing under his lashes in the sublime way he does can have no ulterior motive. It’s just…Yuri.

They sit naked on the porcelain edge of the tub as it fills up and choose lavender, with little petals. Yuri makes a show of canting his ass up as he bends over to shake the salts in. They get in, and Otabek figures out how the bubbles work. Whatever mood Yuri had been intent on for the past fifteen minutes is lost as the jets noisily whir and bubble to life. Yuri pulls himself halfway out and fiddles with the dials, yelping when ‘pulse’ hits him between the legs and splashing when Otabek laughs. 

It reminds Otabek of staying in hotels on holiday as a kid, when he would go down to the pool with his father. Father would lean back and close his eyes (like grown-ups do), and Otabek would go into the middle and sink so that just his eyes were above the water, like a bullfrog. It was hard to do though, because of the bubbles and the water in his nose. He tries it now, but closes his eyes, and when he opens them he sees that Yuri has become quiet and has sunk down to mirror him.

Yuri has pulled his hair from its bun, and it fans around him, jumping as if it’s part of the water. He glides across to Otabek, careful to keep only his eyes above the tossing surface, looking more like a siren than Otabek’s staring frog. He stops between Otabek’s knees, waggles his eyebrows, and spits a stream of water into his face.

“Very fucking cute, Plisetsky.” Otabek dunks his head under and makes a show of scrubbing his face. When he opens his eyes, Yuri is grimacing and wiping his mouth. “Bath salts taste good?”

“You’re very fucking cute with your hair all shitty like that.” Yuri slides onto Otabek’s lap and rests his head back on his shoulder. It’s a little too warm, and Yuri has to lean forward again to gather his hair when it catches between them. But taking advantage of weightlessness is too good to pass up. The jets are loud, and after a little bit the novelty wears off and Otabek turns them off, the water hissing to stillness. Tiny purple petals spin lazily across the surface of the water. Yuri turns and kisses his damp neck, then noses his way down to rest his head against the curve of Otabek’s shoulder.

“What’s something you wanna try?”

Otabek ponders for a second. The room is very quiet, and he can feel Yuri’s heartbeat where his neck is pressed against him. He can almost hear it.

“A Death Spiral. With you.”

Yuri snorts. “Don’t be fucking gay, Beka. I mean in bed.”

It isn’t that Yuri is shy about bringing up what he wants to try sexually. It was Yuri who’d yanked Otabek into a toilet stall in a dim karaoke hall one summer in Hasetsu to bark _‘So, do you wanna kiss me or not?’_. How many times had Yuri slumped against him in a taxi and whispered wetly exactly what he wanted done to him and where, his hand between Otabek’s legs? How many times had he suddenly locked eyes with him in public, drawn him close by the waist or ass, and stopped a hairsbreadth away to whisper against his lips that he wanted him _now, let’s find a fucking toilet?_

There is a constant factor in all of this though, the key to Yuri’s intrepidity. Many nights, after practice and weight training and dinner and cleaning up, Yuri is gentle in his prompting, his hands slipping around Otabek’s waist and breath hot against the back of his neck, silently asking. The way he shakes and buries his face in the pillow or Otabek’s shoulder contrasts so greatly with when he’s boozed up. With his brazen, lust-filled looks and the way he rambles things that make Otabek blush to remember. Yuri isn’t passive, and he isn’t vanilla chaste kisses, but he tends to swallow the flames when he’s sober. With the right amount of intoxication, Yuri ignites and spits out what he wants in the moment.

It doesn’t matter much at all what Otabek says, because this is Yuri asking to be patient with him.

“…I guess I wouldn’t mind looking into light BDSM.”

Yuri makes an almost-snort, holds it in, and turns his head to peer up with one eye.

“Are you serious?”

“You asked.” Otabek shrugs a little and looks down at Yuri, waiting for the response. “It’s whatever, though.”

“Well…yeah, okay, yeah that could be good. Let’s look into it.” Yuri finally stammers, shifting on his lap. He lowers his gaze, but runs a hand up Otabek’s leg and squeezes the back of his thigh, reassuring in his way. Otabek has a fleeting feeling like he’s won a prize he didn’t remember signing up for. 

“What was it you wanted to ask?”

Yuri moves his hand back up to the top of Otabek’s leg, then folds his arms across his chest, stirring the water. It’s quiet and hot, they should have opened the little window next to the shower.

“Would you ever have a threesome?” Yuri’s voice echoes in the small room, just a little too loud. “I mean. Remember Mila said she and Sara fooled around with that speed skater in Beijing?” he adds quickly.

Otabek considers for a second. “How long had Mila and Sara been a thing?”

“I think they were just like, playing with each other’s tits when they were drunk or whatever at that point. I don’t know. Whatever girls do.”

“ _‘Whatever girls do.’_ ” Otabek chuckles despite himself, earning a heel to the side of his calf.

“I don’t fuckin’ know. You’re the one who likes to write girly songs and munch carpet.” Yuri growls to himself.

They fall into silence again, and Otabek catches himself chewing on his lower lip. He hopes Yuri hasn’t looked up. He seems fixated on catching lavender petals on each of his fingers.

“I would be open to it if everyone just saw it as fun.” Otabek says carefully. “I wouldn’t jeopardize our relationship for it.”

Yuri nods, still looking at the hand that isn’t crossed over his chest. He has petals on four fingers.

“Were you...thinking about something?” Otabek was honestly surprised he hadn’t heard about this threesome idea before, after a few vodka tonics or half a bottle of wine when Mila came over. For all the ways that Otabek knows Yuri, how Yuri likes his tea and how he likes his feet rubbed and whether or not he will like a new kid at the rink, there will always be these moments of uncertainty. Yuri either spouts everything, or nothing. Rants or sits quietly, looking at his phone with dull eyes when Otabek knows there’s something he wants to say.

“Just like.” Yuri clears his throat. This is something that requires him to clear his throat. “I was just thinking about the idea. But I don’t have anyone in mind. I just wanted to know how you felt.”

“Maybe a random person would be best.” Otabek muses.

“A rando?”

“I mean, someone without any baggage for either of us.”

“Yeah, and if we knew they weren’t gonna blab to the media about being double-teamed by two Olympians.” Yuri’s voice begins to lighten, and Otabek feels something uncoil inside of him.

“So, in your fantasy we’re both fucking someone?”

“Or like. I don’t know. Would watching me get fucked bother you?” Yuri looks up, and the combination of his words, the angle, and his wide, questioning eyes sends Otabek’s blood south in a way that it shouldn’t.

Otabek hadn’t considered it before. But oh, it feels like something golden and heavy in the palm of his hand, a key to a hidden vault. Something clicks into place in a carnal, testosterone-driven monkey part of his brain, and he recalls sitting on a night train from Astana to Almaty, legs drawn up into the empty seat beside him and phone jammed into the fold of his jacket. In his sleep-deprived, lustful haze, he’d carefully reversed the video again and again. He focused on the way his hand dug into Yuri’s ass, Yuri snapping his hips back to meet him, the way Yuri tossed his hair and the sounds in his headphones. He had made a genius decision and slapped Yuri’s ass as he’d gotten close, and Yuri had cried _“Fuck!”_ in response. It was before Otabek had moved up to St. Petersburg, when they only had hotel rooms and the summer in Hasetsu or Almaty, the odd weekend in Lilia’s pristine condo. _‘Let’s make something to tide us over.’_

An image comes to his mind, Yuri live and in living color writhing and arching his back and with a hand on his hip and his throat. But the angles are the same, Otabek taking in the whole scene from the viewpoint of the phone they had set on the nightstand.

“...no, it could be good, watching you.” Otabek wonders if Yuri can feel the way his heart is jumping in his chest. He has to. “If you want to do it that way. We could, ah, take turns. Last longer.”

Yuri smirks, and runs his hand up to Otabek’s neck. “Pervert,” he whispers as he raises himself to whisper against Otabek’s mouth, “I knew you’d be into it.”

They manage to make it into the shower to properly wash their hair, hands lingering a little too long and cocks half-hard. As they trot into the bedroom, Yuri chuckles lowly, “BDSM, fucking hell, Beka…”

***

Almost a year later, and they’re both assigned to Skate Canada in Vancouver. At the banquet Yuri finds himself pinned uncomfortably against the back of a chair as JJ leans across into him to yap at Otabek about an after party, his voice too loud and reeking of alcohol.

“How’re we gonna get there?” asks Otabek.

“Guang Hong hasn’t drank, he’ll give us a ride.”

“Him and Leo are going?”

“Yeah! Everyone’s going!”

Otabek turns and must have noticed Yuri’s pinched expression, because he splays a hand on JJ’s chest and gently pushes him to a normal distance. “Uh...do you want to keep drinking?”

Earlier that day, Yuri had placed third, JJ second, and some little Swiss shit named Martin had taken the gold. Yuri’d had to stand on the podium seething silently as _“Cantique Suisse”_ blared and the other two babbled away in French. Otabek had placed 5th, behind Leo, and Yuri had spent most of the medal ceremony squinting into the stands trying to find him. As they headed off the ice, Martin had shyly told Yuri he was an inspiration. Yuri didn’t remember his response.

Yes, he wants to keep drinking. He considers the alternative, which is likely wandering to find a gas station, getting booze, and passing out watching TV in their hotel room. Maybe drunk sex, if Otabek can cut him off in time.

“How far do you live?”

J.J. grins broadly.

“It’s at my friend’s place. Like a half-hour, tops.”

Their flight isn’t until 3pm the next day. “Fuck it, let’s go.” he growls to Otabek, and JJ whoops, despite Yuri having spoke in Russian. Yuri grabs two champagne flutes on the way out and ignores his buzzing phone as he saunters out of the hall.

 

The apartment is off-white walls and cream carpet and every party Yuri has ever attended in North America. As he scans the front room, he’s shocked to find no-one had unhinged a door to play the ping-pong game. JJ’s friends are in stark contrast to the skaters, who are in varying states of dress slacks, waistcoats, and party dresses. Yuri heads straight to the kitchen, grabs a red cup (fucking hell), and scans the bottles lining the counter for vodka and tonic water. When he returns, JJ has His Good Friend Otabek Altin under his arm and is introducing him to some very straight-looking men.

“Holy shit, you won the Gold in Beijing, didn’t you? Yuri…”

Yuri turns to the boy and takes a sip from his cup, listening to him stumble on his last name. He lets a second go by. “Plisetsky.” Someone starts music, and the bass is so loud his cup vibrates.

“Yeah, Pretzky!”

Otabek excuses himself and, along with Leo, makes a beeline for the stereo system. Yuri uses this as an excuse to leave the conversation. He sits on the couch and sips his vodka tonic, watching the boys argue over whose phone to plug in.

“Otabek’s a DJ Leo, let him do it.” says Isabella, sitting down next to Yuri. She has white wine in an actual wine glass, and lipstick in a deeper shade than usual, to match the current fall trend. Otabek has always been friendly with Isabella, as she was in school with him and JJ when Otabek was living in Canada. Yuri hasn’t talked to her much on his own.

She turns to Yuri. “That Swiss kid came out of nowhere, huh?”

“Uh, yeah. He’s...young.” Yuri takes a big drink, holds in a burp. Isabella is still watching him with a little half-smile. “He, uh, didn’t beat JJ by many points. He’s pissed?”

Isabella chuckles and glances to the front of the room, where JJ is still talking with his friends. “I don’t know, I haven’t asked him. He looks fine.”

A mild beat that Yuri recognizes as one of Otabek’s mixes begins playing, and a moment later they’re scooting over so he can join them. Then it’s the three of them, sitting together on the couch.

Yuri drains his drink as Otabek and Isabella talk about fucking school. Otabek is considering getting a masters degree, and Isabella is getting hers now. Otabek’s hand is rubbing circles on Yuri’s back, as though in apology. Their English is very fast, and easy to tune out. Yuri pulls out his phone.

 

Two hours later, Yuri is bored.

Everyone has migrated into their space, and they’re playing some drinking game on the coffee table. Yuri gave up long ago, tired of asking Otabek to translate the rules, and is slumped against the arm of the couch listening to Guang Hong and Leo argue over gossip, interjecting where he can. A little dizzy, he focuses on the little charm hanging off of Guang Hong’s phone, swinging and catching the light.

“...definitely something going on, he sent all these snaps with Chris from Amsterdam like a week later.” Guang Hong’s thumb blurs as he frenziedly scrolls through his phone, and Yuri has to close his eyes for a few seconds.

“I feel like they even had a thing before the breakup.” Leo is lounging back on one arm and holding a beer in a brown bottle with the other. “Like, check out Phichit’s instagram from when we all went to Katsuki’s place. All these pics together, like on the beach and drinking just the two of them and shit, right after Max left.” Leo takes a sip, then starts, turning.

“Yuri, you’re friends with Katsuki, right? Ask him if Phichit and Chris are fucking.”

“No point.” Yuri re-adjusts himself on the couch, kneeing Otabek in the process. He feels a heavy hand come to rest on his thigh. He looks around for his cup, and finds it empty. JJ’s friends are so fucking loud. “Everybody knows that.”

Yuri leaves them to investigate two years of Phichit Chulanont’s instagram feed, swaying to his feet and picking his way to the kitchen. The bottle of vodka is empty and turned on it’s side, but in the refrigerator there is half a bottle of wine. He could kiss Isabella.

He returns, the entire bottle in hand, just in case. That fucker JJ has taken his spot, so he sits on Otabek’s lap, pulling his knees up. Otabek, apparently deep in conversation, hooks an arm around his waist, but he’s very slippery and Yuri finds himself sliding into JJ’s side. JJ doesn’t seem to notice, but continues going on about some ad campaign. 

Yuri watches JJ’s friends play the drinking game, making a point to ignore Otabek, who is a traitor for talking to JJ this fucking long. It’s the one where you pour all the drinks into one cup, and there’s a bunch of dumb rules, and the point is that someone has to drink from the gross cup. Way back, at a Skate America when he was just 16, he had insisted on joining this game in a hotel room. He drank the cup. Mila had held his hair and shouted at the boys from the bathroom when it came back up. 

Isabella’s wine is dry, the good stuff, and Yuri’s glad. He finally scoots back so he can rest on Otabek’s shoulder, just for a minute. He hears some boys whooping and hollering. Isabella’s red, manicured toes appear on the carpet in front of him, and she’s hovering over JJ, beer in hand. Yuri watches her pass it over him to Otabek, ruffle JJ’s hair, and wink. She heads back to where she was talking to some Russian girls by the door. Yuri thinks about following her and joining them. He should at least say something to Darya, he worked with her for a month to perfect her Biellmann.

He notices that JJ is leaning over him, probably because it’s loud. But he also notices that his arm is behind Otabek’s head. Otabek has his arm around Yuri, and JJ has his arm behind them. Yuri squirms and nudges JJ with his ass. JJ grins and looks down at him, then puts his hand on Yuri’s side, as if to steady him, and continues talking, now about a runway show he did for charity.

_“Did you get plowed backstage and realize you’re a fucking homo?”_ Yuri grumbles, and Otabek snorts. “C’mon, let’s go talk to the girls. I’m tired of sitting.”

“Use your English!” JJ chirps into Yuri’s ear.

“Speak for yourself. It was nice to include me in the conversation on the podium today, Leroy.”

JJ scoffs. “Payback for all the Russian. Even at the freaking Olympics.”

Viktor had spent the entirety of the setup for the Men’s Singles podium ceremony at Pyeongchang chastising Yuri for skipping out on a team meeting that morning. Tired of hearing it all for the second time, Yuri had decided to respond by recalling an infamous story from Vancouver 2010, in which Viktor had made a colorful comment about the availability of condoms in the Olympic Village to a reporter during a press conference. Viktor had clenched his jaw and gone teary-eyed for the anthem, double-hugged Yuri and JJ for the photos, and proceeded to tear back into Yuri the second the last camera clicked. JJ had stood rigidly with a plastic smile and sweaty hand clutching his Bronze for twenty minutes.

“Whatever.” Yuri growls. He hoists himself up and heads across the tilting room, focusing on keeping his cup of wine intact and stepping on several laps in the process. When he comes out of the bathroom, Otabek is outside, leaned up against the wall. It couldn’t have been more than five minutes, but he’s untucked his shirt and lost his tie. Otabek steps forward to meet Yuri, cheeks flushed. Yuri didn’t realize he was this drunk too. Otabek steers him back into the bathroom, and shuts the door.

Otabek sets his sweating beer on the faux-marble counter with a _clink_ , and grips Yuri by his sides, and they proceed to kiss and grind against each other’s dress slacks for a few minutes. For all the times that Yuri gets drunker than Otabek and fights someone, or cries, or gets sick, or all three, there are also those times when they’re both blissfully inebriated and wickedly horny. Otabek’s got him hoisted up next to the sink, and a hand shoved down the back of his pants, groping bare ass. Yuri is fully prepared to at least blow his boyfriend in this stupid apartment full of boys who wear ill-fitting t-shirts and blue jeans and communicate primarily through whooping. 

Then Otabek seems to remember why he trailed after Yuri in the first place, and he pulls off of Yuri’s neck with a smack and takes a step back from between his legs. He places a hand on either of Yuri’s knees, as though bracing himself. He’s only a little hard to focus on, this far away.

“What?” Yuri groans.

“How would you feel,” he starts, then stops and hangs his head for a second, as though collecting his thoughts. Yuri places his hands on top of Otabek’s and begins trailing his fingers up the smooth underside of his arms. He’s always liked doing that. Otabek’s head bobs back up.

“How would you feel about bringing a girl to bed?”

“...what the fuck?”

“I mean, bringing a girl to our bed,” Otabek quickly clarifies. “I mean a threesome.”

“...Fuck, you mean _now?_ ”

“No, no, no.” Otabek’s got his eyebrows knit in a pinched way that Yuri usually sees when Otabek _isn’t_ saying anything. He never babbles, but he’s getting close. “I mean, I just wanted to ask you. An idea...if you wanna try it sometime.”

Yuri stares for several very long beats. And then, a moment of clarity.

“...you mean Isabella, don’t you?”

Otabek just looks back at him. It’s minuscule, but his eyes go from locked with Yuri’s to looking somewhere right above his lashline. He swallows.

Something shifts and Yuri notices how he’s half-sitting on the ridge of the sink, how he’s gripping Otabek’s forearms probably a little too tight, how Otabek’s eyes aren’t floating across his vision anymore. It may be the booze in his system somehow dissipating from flooding to rose-tinting, it may be that his cock is still half-hard in his pants, but he decides. 

He leans his head back and blows air through his nose in a voiceless laugh. “Alright, alright. Like. I know you guys had a thing.”

“We didn’t really have a _thing._ ”

“I mean like, I know you guys did stuff in high school.”

“Yuri, it’s fine. If you don’t want to do it, we won’t.” Otabek is shaking his head, running his hand through his hair.

Yuri could laugh, for real this time. “I didn’t say no, Beka.”

Otabek looks at him, comically slack-jawed, and Yuri reaches out and takes his hand. He secretly loves when Otabek is drunk, when his eyes go just a little crossed and he covers his face and laughs a little too much and gets handsy. He searches for a moment, trying to find a real _boyfriend_ thing to say. _‘Yeah baby, let’s fuck your friend’s wife, who gave you a handjob when you were sixteen and who I’ve said like, thirty words to in my life. How we gonna do this?’_

“Let’s ah...let’s do this together. And with Isabella. When are we gonna ask--”

Some asshole raps on the door. “Hey, can I pee?”

Yuri considers ignoring him, but in a half-beat Otabek reaches for the door and yanks it open, angled awkwardly with one arm still in Yuri’s grip. 

“Yeah, we’re done,” he says to the t-shirt-jeans-and-snapback combo waiting in the hall, whose eyes go big. Otabek grabs his beer, thrusts Yuri’s wine back into his hand, and Yuri is being pulled back to the kitchen before he can hear what exactly jeansboy whooped to this friends.

 

“I think she’d be down.” Otabek says into Yuri’s ear as they lean against the counter and watch the unfolding game of _‘beer pong’_. It’s two card tables pushed together, but no-one is sober enough to care. JJ keeps getting told off again and again for leaning forward over the cups as he aims for the opposite end. Upon processing Yuri’s response as best he could, Otabek has traded his incredulous gape for cool delight. He claps a hand around Yuri’s back and pulls him into his side, despite the height disparity leaving Yuri teetering into him.

“You don’t have to whisper, the Russians left.” says Yuri, amused.

JJ misses, swears and slaps his thigh, then turns to Yuri and Otabek as Isabella delicately sets her wine glass down to take her turn. “Talkin’ shit, Altin?”

Otabek leisurely takes a sip of beer, leaving JJ to watch restlessly. His eyes flicker back and forth between the two of them.

“Nope.”

Isabella sinks her ball into one cup, two. She mimes blowing on her fingers like a gun as the two boys at the end holler.

“You guys should play us after them. We’re about to finish this game.”

“ _She’s_ about to finish this game.” Yuri mutters. He’s watching Isabella now, and feeling sleazy. It’s not like he’d never thought about what it would be like with a woman.

“We’re cool watching.” Otabek replies.

JJ shrugs and returns to Isabella, sliding his hand across her lower back.

“Have you talked to either of them about it?” Yuri asks.

“Nope. But,” Otabek pauses, watching as both the opponent's’ balls miss and JJ throws up twin JJ Style signals, “I think they’re looking to sort of see other people.”

“Huh? How do you know?”

Otabek shrugs. “JJ told me.”

Yuri starts, “They’re divorcing?!”

Otabek looks up at him, raising his eyebrows.

“Not like that. They want to have an open relationship.”

Yuri remembers a night in Hasetsu years ago, when Otabek hadn’t arrived yet, and he was stuck sitting with Phichit, Chris, Viktor, Yuuri, and Mr. Katsuki in the dining room. Viktor was drunk enough to pass the sake bottle to him when he asked politely. Chris had been questioning JJ’s “morals”, and JJ had furiously insisted that he was going to remain “pure” until marriage. Mr. Katsuki had about had a heart attack laughing when Yuuri translated for him. Viktor had drunkenly called JJ a “fucking dunce” before announcing that he and Yuuri had gotten in lots of practice before making the big decision, which Yuuri did not translate for his father. Half of them had ended up at the snack visiting Minako until morning. Yuri had quietly passed out under a table.

Yuri laughs a little too loudly. It breaks JJ’s concentration as he lines up a shot, one eyebrow raised and his tongue out. He flips Yuri the bird, which Yuri throws back at him.

JJ finally sinks a shot, and turns to Otabek and Yuri, fists and eyebrows raised in triumph. Isabella smirks and pats him on the chest. JJ whoops and makes a show of hip-thrusting to the beat of the music, barely audible in the kitchen. He’s all teeth and crinkled eyes.

“I guess he’s cute.” Yuri mutters into Otabek’s ear.

***

“He thinks he’s bi. He texted me a few months ago asking how I knew I liked guys.” Otabek gives his clothes a final shove, then clicks his suitcase shut. The red clock on the nightstand reads 12:17. Yuri has barely started packing, his clothes, costumes, various accessories and bandages strewn across the floor.

“Spoken like a true ‘straight’ boy.” Yuri says thickly around his toothbrush. He spits loudly, wipes his mouth on a used towel. “So how _did_ you know?”

“I’ve told you, I watched gay porn and liked it. You?”

Yuri fixates on searching for where he had stepped out of his international-flight-comfy-sweats two days before. Otabek doesn’t miss the flush spreading down his neck, though.

“Why don’t you think he said anything last night?” Yuri diverts, pulling his sweatpants and a t-shirt from the crease of the loveseat. “I mean, he was pretty drunk. We all were.”

“I haven’t really gotten back to him about it.” Otabek puts his phone down and starts picking Yuri’s costumes up and folding them. They’re supposed to be in the lobby in 10 minutes to catch their taxi.

“Seriously?”

“I mean, I told him I fantasized about guys. How I knew I was bi.” Otabek seems to be about to continue, but stops and fixates on rolling an ace bandage back up.

“What didn’t you get back to him about, then?” Yuri starts shoving his rumpled clothes haphazardly into his suitcase. Otabek figures that if he could get them here that way, he can get them back, and instead focuses on how to phrase his answer.

“He, ah.” Otabek walks into the bathroom, throws the shower curtain back and picks up the towels for a final check. Yuri’s almost finished packing when he returns. They’re down the hall and waiting for the elevator when Yuri looks up from his phone.

“What did JJ ask?”

“He drunk texted me. That’s when he said that him and Bella were looking to have an open relationship,” The elevator comes, and a girl with a team USA jacket and her coach are in it. Yuri and Otabek step in and it’s very quiet. 

“And...that he’s always thought you were hot.”

Yuri snorts. “I should have known. Always calling me a girl. Probably the only way his straight ass knows how to flirt. And you left him hanging after dropping that bomb?”

“I wanted to ask you first.”

“You asked me if we could have a threesome with Bella.”

“...she’s down for it, too.”

They watch the floors tick from four, to three, to two.

“So you would get with Isabella, I’d get with JJ?”

“I mean, we can just see where it takes us. Would you want to?” Otabek doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but it’s looking promising. The elevator _dings_ , reception.

“...well, yeah, sure, let’s have a fucking foursome then. When and where?”

Otabek puts a hand on Yuri’s back as they exit the elevator, and tries not to grin too widely. He holds the lobby door open for the Americans, the wind already making his eyes water. 

“Спасибо, мальчики.” the coach says, nodding to them as he passes by.

***

Fucking Georgi has convinced a girl to marry him, and so Yuri, Otabek, and almost everybody they fucking know are in Santorini, because Georgi needed his destination wedding and nothing is more dramatic than the land of the gayest war legends of all time and old men who Otabek’s hipster friends like to quote after taking a community college class.

Except that they are on an island with more bars than history, and all that pottery and shit is on the mainland. Otabek had dragged Yuri to sightsee for a day when they arrived in Athens. After sweating his ass off hiking up to the Acropolis and pretending to listen to Wikipedia facts as he scoured the city below for a Starbucks, Yuri decided that despite being an Olympian and therefore a little more obligated than the average citizen to visit, old dirty ruins and souvenir magnets just weren’t his thing.

Watching Yuuri Katsuki get drunk on _ouzo_ and strip and posting the videos to Twitter, however, was his thing. Getting Otabek fucked up enough to grope him in public and going to nightclubs full of people who just thought he was another rich Russian kid on holiday was his thing. Nursing hangovers on the beach or in front of the hotel pool with the girls and getting as much free yogurt as he wanted for breakfast were also his things. After arriving on the island, Greece wasn’t so bad after all.

The wedding is in two days. The younger half of the party had come a week early to “help”, but between Georgi going full bridezilla and Georgi’s mother arriving a few days later to establish her role as Head Harpy, most others had decided to fuck off on other adventures. Mainly involving getting drunk on beaches and in pools and other drowning hazards, but also in bars ran by fat old men who had never left the island and met more tourists than Greeks in a day.

So here Yuri is, in their hotel’s bar at 1 A.M, watching as Viktor attempts to talk Yuuri into putting at least his pants on so that they can go down the street to the “good bar”. It’s good because Viktor had drank in there on the first night and shown the Australian bartender on working holiday a bunch of videos of himself at various Olympics, and spun a yarn about Greece having an Olympians discount, so now they drank for cheap. Not that Viktor Nikiforov needed to drink for cheap. But he did need people kissing his ass every minute, and Yuuri got sassy when he was drunk and Otabek, JJ, Isabella, and himself were not the people to do it.

Yuri had not even known that JJ and Isabella knew Georgi very well. Apparently Isabella and him keep in touch quite regularly online. And free hotel. Georgi’s fiance’s parents were not poor.

“Okay but I’m not buttoning ‘em. I’m still fuckin’ full from dinner.” Katsudon finally relents, stumbling as he steps into his jeans in the middle of the lounge. They’re the only ones in there, most everyone has gone out into the lit streets to the bars that are open all night. “I’m not walking.”

“Full of food, or of drink?” Viktor chides under his breath, and Yuuri grumbles at him that he isn’t in the mood for using Russian. It’s a rare occasion that Viktor is not also blackout drunk, and Yuri, perched on a stool and nursing his...fourth?...vodka martini, is glad that he’s sober enough to go be an old man someplace else. The couple stumble out, Yuuri still loudly complaining about the “hike”.

Otabek had been drinking girly cocktails, but remembered he had a dick when JJ turned up and started going round for round with him in some kind of straight-man ritual with whiskey. He isn’t fucked up, but he doesn’t mind when Yuri comes and drapes himself half on top of him. JJ is sitting in the other cushy leather chair, and Isabella is on his lap. Yuri doesn’t fit on Otabek’s lap, so this is the next best thing.

There’s something weird crackling in the air after the main entertainment leaves. They talk about the wedding, and what gossip they had heard about other skaters or Georgi and his mother’s most recent tussle. But Yuri sees something. He can tell that Otabek is doing fine, by the way he has a hand over one of Yuri’s thighs and quickly interjects to argue with JJ over whether or not Georgi is the trophy husband in this marriage. But Isabella seems...restless? She’s quiet, and he sees her take a long gulp to finish her wine. Yuri finishes his martini and stands.

“Want another glass?”

Isabella nods and stands quickly to join him. JJ doesn’t seem to notice, but learns forward as he gets into the details of Georgi’s fiance’s family business with Otabek. As they stand at the bar and wait for their drinks, Isabella turns to lean in close. She seems to hesitate, as though she’s about to say something delicate. Yuri can’t think of anything that would really render him offended at the moment, and he’s intrigued. 

“So, has Otabek, ah, talked to you?” she says, her pale blue eyes flickering up to meet Yuri’s as she speaks, something like trepidation looking strange on her features.

_Ah_. Yuri mentally kicks himself, because how the fuck did he forget about that?

“Yeah, uh, he has.” Yuri says lamely. He had wondered how it would go, and he had imagined saying some cool group sex-initiating line so many times. _Nice, Plisetsky._ “About...the thing you guys want to do.” _So, so smooth._

“We talked a little bit about maybe going on dates first.” says Isabella, turning to him and crossing her arms. “Like, Otabek and I go out, or you and JJ, and talk about what you’re looking for.” Yuri feels a little lightheaded at the prospect. Of sitting through a dinner with JJ. Having JJ wine and dine him. Or would it be the other way around?

“But,” Isabella’s wine is set in front of her with a tiny _clink_ , and she immediately reaches to take a gulp of it. Her lipstick isn’t even smudged. She tosses her hair and makes eye contact again, very, very cool. “I think I want to just do it. Do you want to...tonight?”

Now Yuri’s martini is set in front of him. He thinks, if he drinks this, he should still be _okay_. Not that he had ever had a wild multi-partner sex marathon before and exactly knows his limits in that situation. Or how the fuck they were even going to do this.

But yeah, he wants to. He wants to go suck the shitty fake Nice Boy smile JJ’s been giving him for the past few days right off his face. He wants to make him whimper, after all the weird straight-boy-smiley-faces he’s been sending Yuri over direct message on Instagram. He’s _curious_.

“Yeah...yeah. Let’s do it now.”

“Alright, Jean should be fine. He has a huge thing for you, Yuri.” They turn back, and Isabella puts a hand on his arm for a moment. Otabek and JJ are still in deep discussion, mirroring each other in the way they hold their whiskeys between their legs. “Otabek’ll be fine, right?”

Yuri barks out a laugh. “I’m one-hundred percent sure you’ll get your pussy eaten tonight.” He catches her perfect eyebrows fly up as he saunters to the boys, a smirk on his face.

Yuri catches Otabek’s eye on the way. He shrugs as he veers to JJ’s chair, so small he’s sure the others would never catch it, and Otabek’s eyes widen slightly, but it looks like a kid on Christmas morning. They smile at each other, and then Yuri plops onto JJ’s lap.

JJ is stunned to silence mid-sentence. “Oh--ah, hey there…” he stutters, and glances around for Isabella. She slides over to Otabek, her light laughter tinkling off the walls.

“We were thinking we could switch things up for a minute.”

Yuri rounds on JJ, grabbing his hand and placing it on the small of his back. Yuri is too lanky to sit on Otabek comfortably, but this fucker is _all leg_.

“C’mon, haven’t you been thinking about where you wanted to put those hands?” Yuri purrs, equal parts embarrassed and emboldened by his own words, leaning into JJ and putting his arm around the back of the chair. JJ gulps, but then regains a bit of his composure. 

“I ah, yeah, I have.” he says only half-lamely, and makes up for it by clasping Yuri’s leg and pulling him closer, so he’s practically sitting on JJ’s crotch. Yuri holds his martini glass over the floor with his other hand, and glances over at the other chair.

Isabella is perched on Otabek’s lap, holding his jaw as he kisses her deeply. _Alright then_. Yuri wonders how much the bartender can see around the corner. He also finds that he doesn’t really care.

He looks down at JJ (or should it be _Jean_ , now?) and JJ reaches up, runs his hand around to the back of Yuri’s neck, brings him down slowly. It wasn’t like Yuri had imagined the first time they would kiss. Yuri had thought he would drunkenly push JJ against the wall of the elevator, or reach a hand to his neck and a hand to his crotch in the back of a taxi. JJ brushes his lips over Yuri’s, then pushes forward, finally slotting them together. Yuri lets him take his time, moving his free hand to Jean’s neck and tracing his hairline lightly. Before he can deepen the kiss, Otabek is tapping his shoulder. His face is red, but he’s grinning.

“Let’s get this show on the road.” says Isabella.

***

In the elevator, they end up in opposite corners and Jean isn’t sure who starts it, but suddenly they’re all laughing, even Yuri, his shoulders jiggling and mouth twisted into a little comma. He looks very cute. Otabek runs a hand through his hair, his cheeks flushed. Bella catches his eye and winks.

They get to the room, and before Jean can barely even turn around, Yuri is on him. He’s pushed onto the bed, and then Yuri is straddling him, his long hair framing the sides of Jean’s face.

“I should have known you wanted this sooner.” Yuri hisses into his ear, then bites his earlobe, lapping his tongue over it immediately after. It goes straight to his crotch. Jean runs his hands over Yuri’s thighs, up to his ass, as their mouths meet. Jean used to think Yuri was scrawny, even when he grew taller. He has a _nice ass_. He feels a strange pang of jealousy for Otabek, even as Yuri sucks his tongue into his mouth and groans against it, making Jean shiver. Somewhere far away, there’s a squeaking thud of weight hitting a mattress and Bella’s laughter. Yuri grinds against him, and he’s hard. This fast.

_Fuck._

“Take your fucking shirt off.” Yuri rears up and begins unbuttoning Jean’s shirt impatiently.

“Hey hey, slow down there, tiger.” Jean chuckles, and catches Yuri’s wrists. He’s going to pop a button. Jean carefully undoes his button-down, hoping against hope that Yuri doesn’t notice the way his fingers quiver. But instead Yuri locks eyes with him, and begins to slowly rock his ass against Jean’s crotch, rolling his hips in a way that drains the blood from Jean’s head and makes it hard to think.

“You like that?” Yuri chides, splaying a hand across his chest the moment it becomes visible. He exaggerates his movements, bites his pink lower lip. “Wanna fuck me like this, _Jean?_ ”

That does it.

Jean flips them, pinning Yuri under him. Yuri’s eyes are wide as Jean pins him down with a knee and shrugs his shirt off. But Yuri's grinning, his white teeth flashing. One of his canines is a little crooked; Jean had never noticed before. He kisses Yuri sloppily, runs his tongue over his teeth, sucks at his swollen lower lip. Jean kisses him like he’s drowning and Yuri is air filling his lungs, like he’s cold water in a desert. 

Yuri _is_ a fucking tease. After Otabek had propositioned him to be friends (or whatever the hell magic he had worked), Yuri had been an inescapable factor in their friendship, the partner in crime that he didn’t know Otabek needed. He was always slinking along to dinner with them, scowling at this and that, then kissing Otabek’s ass so obviously even Jean noticed. After they got together, Yuri was the blonde bitch hanging on Otabek’s shoulder and still scowling, but there was something else in his narrowed eyes, in the jut of his hip when he talked to Jean. 

He had caught his eye and winked before stepping onto the ice at last year’s Grand Prix Final (and Jean had spent days wondering if he had just imagined it). A warm hand had been placed between his shoulder blades to gently push him in front while Yuri and Viktor argued at the Olympics in Pyeongchang. In the locker room at Four Continents, Jean had been stashing his phone in his locker when he felt a whoosh of cool air. Yuri had lifted the back of his shirt, and smirked down at his lower back. “Wanted to see if you still had that shitty tattoo.” he gruffed, then let his jacket fall and stalked back over to Yuuri Katsuki before Jean could say anything.

This was the inevitable conclusion, Jean thought.

Yuri’s hair is softer than he had imagined. Fine strands stick to Jean’s clammy palms as he runs his hands back to cup Yuri’s head. He grinds his own erection against Yuri and feels his stomach flip-flop as Yuri moans into his mouth. Yuri’s all hard muscle and sinew, but his mouth feels so good and his hands are so nice and cool on Jean’s neck…

Then Yuri is pushing him up and pulling his own shirt off, and one hand is at Jean’s belt buckle, pulling at the whole thing. “I’ll suck your cock.”

“Are you sure?” Jean asks, and immediately wonders why he’s asking.

Yuri barks something in Russian across the room, and the bubble that he had been writhing in with Yuri is broken. Otabek replies in Russian and then mutters something into Isabella’s neck that makes her throw her head back in throaty laughter. She’s straddling his lap, and his hand is up her skirt. Otabek lifts his head again. His hair is tousled boyishly.

“He really likes giving head.”

_“Oi, suka.”_ Yuri growls over, vibrating under Jean’s hands.

“Let him show you a good time, Jean.” Isabella says, and turns back to run her nails over Otabek’s scalp.

Yuri grumbles to himself as he pushes Jean up. “Go to the...front...with the pillows.” He motions to the headboard.

“The headboard?”

“Shut the fuck up and get your dick out.” Yuri is flushed down to his chest.

Jean doesn’t need to be told twice.

He awkwardly stands to the side of the bed and pulls his jeans down. He follows with his briefs, watching Yuri watch him hungrily. He can’t help but feel a surge of pride as Yuri sucks his lip into his mouth, looking him up and down. He crawls onto the bed and rests his back against the headboard, feeling suddenly cool in the hotel air conditioning.

Yuri settles between his legs and grabs him abruptly by the base, making him jump.

“Take it easy.” Yuri purrs, elbowing his thighs apart. “You have a nice cock.” His breath puffs against it. _Jesus._

Altin wasn’t joking. Yuri’s mouth glistens wetly as he rolls his lips over the head a few times, working his tongue, and then fucking _swallows_ him to the root. Jean cries out, and after a few moments realizes his hands are hanging in the air stupidly. He lowers them to rest on Yuri’s shoulders. He feels Yuri chuckle low in his throat.

“God damn.” deadpans Isabella, and JJ turns to see her and Otabek watching Yuri, the former with wide eyes and the latter with his mouth set into a sort of half-grin that Jean would have to describe as the true definition of _shit-eating_. Otabek catches his eye, and, smile extending to both sides of his mouth, raises a hand in a thumbs-up. The other is preoccupied with squeezing his wife’s right breast.

Jean turns back and runs a hand up over Yuri’s head, pulling his hair back from his face. Yuri looks up at him, and the position, the angle, the way Yuri’s cheeks hollow and his lips stretch over him is almost too much. It’s a look on Yuri Jean’s never seen before, except in his fantasies, those sharp green eyes gazing up at him. It’s so much more intense, though, with Yuri’s weight on his legs and breath huffing over his stomach and mouth pumping up and down…

There’s a moan, and he glances over to see that Otabek’s got Isabella mostly naked and is between her legs. She fists his hair and looks down with knit eyebrows. Jean fleetingly wonders how Yuri and Otabek had the talk, the _I love you, honey, but I really want to fuck this other person_ talk. (Or, in Jean’s case, the _I really wanna fuck my best friend’s boyfriend also I think I may be bisexual_ talk.)

Yuri _pops_ off his cock. “Hey. JJ. Look at me.” Jean doesn’t have to be told twice, and stares wide-eyed as Yuri shimmies up so he’s straddling his hips. He sits up on his knees and begins undoing his skintight jeans. Jean reaches up, lightly runs his hand over the bulge in front. He hears Yuri snort softly.

“It’s your first time touching another man, _da_?” he mumbles, touching Jean’s jaw in an unexpected moment of tenderness.

Jean swallows. “Yeah.”

He reverently holds Yuri’s hip with one hand, fingers wrapping around to dig into his ass, and pulls his zipper down with the other. Yuri isn’t wearing underwear. His pubic hair is light and trimmed, perfect as the rest of Yuri, and he shimmies his narrow hips as Jean pulls his jeans down. His cock bobs free in front of Jean’s face. Jean wraps his hand around it immediately, leaving Yuri’s jeans stretched across his thighs for the moment. He’s flushed and leaking precum, uncircumcised. Jean pumps him once, twice, sliding the skin over the head. He leans forward and, without thinking, licks the tip. Yuri gasps and places his hands on Jean’s shoulders.

“Fuck. _Jean._ ” 

Jean grabs Yuri’s ass and pulls him into his mouth. He could get drunk on this alone, Yuri bending over his head as he holds him in place, clutching at his shoulders, the _sounds_ he makes. The position isn’t ideal, but Jean doesn’t care, he’s wanted this for _so long_ if he’s honest with himself. The way he says Jean’s name is better than he could have imagined. He takes Yuri into his mouth as far as he can, almost all the way down, pulls back. He sucks just the tip, like he likes himself, and then Yuri is tapping his shoulder.

“ _Jean_ , Jean stop. Fuck.” he says in a breathy half-laugh, and grabs himself by the base as Jean pulls off.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah...I’m ah...I don’t want to come yet.” Yuri rolls back onto his ass, cock slapping up against his stomach, and pulls his jeans the rest of the way off. His face is very red. Suddenly shy, Yuri focuses somewhere on Jean’s heaving chest as he says quietly, “Do you want to fuck me, then?”

Jean crawls forward and covers Yuri, pushing him down as he kisses him, sliding their erections together and breathing in his gasps. He whispers into his hair, _‘You feel so good, Yuri’_ , and _‘Your hair is so soft’_ , and _‘You’re so fucking beautiful’_. He gropes at Yuri’s ass, his thighs, his erection.

“We need lube!” Yuri breaths between sloppy kisses, and finally he pushes Jean off to scramble across the room to his suitcase. Otabek is still between Isabella’s legs, and Yuri slaps his exposed ass on the way back. He plops back down in front of JJ and hands him a condom and a small, clear bottle of lubricant.

“Like this.” Yuri pulls JJ by the shoulders until he’s positioned how he wants, kneeling between Yuri’s legs. Yuri lays down and pulls his legs up, and fuck, Jean had forgotten to think about the _flexibility_ \--

“Take it. Put it on your fingers.” Yuri is talking to him in an even voice that Jean has never heard before, and he wonders if this is the voice he uses when he guides a younger skater in St. Petersburg through a triple axel or a stretching routine.

“I’ve used lube.” Jean says as he pumps it onto his index and middle finger.

“I don’t know how the fuck straight sex works.” Yuri mutters and, without preamble, begins working his own wet finger into himself. “This time, you put it _here_ , Leroy.”

“Alright Plisetsky, _here?_ ” Jean plays along, putting one hand on the back of Yuri’s thigh and pressing it back, and reaching down with the other to trace along where Yuri’s working himself open.

“Yea-aah.” Yuri pulls his finger out, and Jean wastes no time sliding his middle finger in. It’s fucking tight, and hot, and he prays to God himself in that moment that he’ll be able to last more than a single pump. Jean slowly fucks Yuri open with one finger, then two. Yuri begins moving his hips and panting beneath him, becoming something he could only conjure up in his fantasies. As he watches, Yuri’s cock jumps against his stomach, leaving a thin strand of precum trailing from the tip.

“Move your fingers...ahm...up…” Yuri breathes, and he does, and Yuri _whimpers_. Jean finally slides in a third finger with little resistance, and catches Yuri’s eyes. His gaze is heavy-lidded, his lips are swollen and red as his cock. 

“Can I...fuck you?” Jean asks.

“Yeah.” Yuri says, a crease between his eyebrows. Jean slides his fingers out and reaches for the condom lying beside Yuri’s hip. He shakily tries to open it with slick, shaking fingers. Yuri finally snatches it from him, rips it with his teeth, and rolls it onto Jean’s cock himself.

Jean moves to line himself up, but then Yuri is kneeing his side. 

“Wait.” he mutters, and flips himself around. He sits up on his knees, leans back, rubs Jean along his crack, pulls Jean’s face forward to kiss him over his shoulder. “Like this. Fuck me like this, Jean.”

Yuri pitches forward onto his elbows and presents his ass like an offering, and Jean might have laughed if he wasn’t in a haze of want. He runs his hands over Yuri’s rear and spanks him, making Yuri jump and moan and clutch the sheets.

“You like that?” Jean hits side of his left cheek, _thwapp!_ , then rubs it. Yuri squirms.

“Just fucking put it in.” Yuri says throatily, burying his red face in the sheets.

Jean rubs the of his cock head over Yuri’s hole, still slick. He taps it a few times, watches it twitch.

“I’m not a fucking girl Jean!” Yuri growls, and grinds his ass back against Jean’s cock. “Fuck me already.”

_Okay then._

He pushes in, feeling Yuri clutch around him, and _fuck, yes, yes_ he’s tight. Yuri pushes back to meet him, and like that, he’s inside. Yuri sighs and tosses his head, long hair fanning across his upper back.

“God.” Jean mutters. He runs his hands up Yuri’s sides, back down to grasp his waist lightly. Yuri rolls his hips impatiently. “Give me a minute, baby.” he breathes. He feels like he could come just from the heat and pressure and Yuri’s prone position before him.

Yuri mutters something in Russian, but stays still.

Jean closes his eyes and lets his head flop down. He flexes his thighs, bites the inside of his cheek, anything to take the edge of orgasm off. He definitely tries _not_ to think of the curve of Yuri’s ass, the way his voice was close to whining as he asked to be fucked.

Finally, he begins to move. He thrusts shallowly at first, so slowly, getting used to the drag. He grabs Yuri’s hip with one hand, runs the other up his back and to the base of his neck and holds it there. Yuri groans.

“ _Da_ , Jean. Fuck, you’re big.” he sighs. He spreads his legs a little further, uses his arms to push his whole body back. Jean stills and watches as Yuri begins to practically fuck himself on his cock. He closes his eyes again. 

He can’t help but wonder how Otabek doesn’t go mad.

Jean moves again. He pulls almost all the way out, until he can see the head of his cock, then slides back in. Yuri arches his back, like a freaking porn star.

Jean stops teasing and begins thrusting in earnest, tightening his grip on Yuri’s hip and neck. Yuri makes sounds that will surely haunt Jean for years to come as he snaps his hips back to meet him, head hanging between his hands. Jean leans forward to kiss his back, presses his slick forehead between Yuri’s shoulder blades as he moves.

“Harder, Jean, fucking hell, fuck me harder.” Yuri babbles beneath him, and Jean does. He looks down and sees Yuri’s ass jiggle with each thrust.

He hears someone clapping, or maybe it’s the movement, _who fucking cares_. He licks a stripe up Yuri’s spine. Yuri’s gasping, _‘Ah! Ah!’_ with each thrust, and Jean wants to see what shape that perfect mouth is in. He tenderly grasps the hair at the base of Yuri’s head, then yanks him back to kiss him. It’s more hot breath and teeth than anything, but that keening sound in Yuri’s throat as he does it--

_“Jesus! Yuri!”_ Jean cries, and like that he’s coming. He clutches Yuri with one hand fisted in his hair and one on his ass. Somewhere far off, Yuri’s groaning.

***

“Oh shit, he’s coming.” Isabella mutters, one hand still over her mouth. She had slapped it there when Jean licked Yuri’s back. It hadn’t moved since. She’s still straddling Otabek’s hips, though he’s long since gone soft within her. His condom feels full and uncomfortable, but it’s hard to worry on it with such a show before them. 

Jean trembles as he thrusts one last time, his forehead pressed hard into Yuri’s back. Then with a groan he falls, arms moving to hold Yuri in a bear-hug. With a startled _oof!_ , Yuri slides forward, arms tangling in the sheets.

“Jean!” says Isabella, laughing as her husband moans and nuzzles into the back of Yuri’s neck. Yuri bucks and attempts to rear up beneath his bulk, hissing curses.

_“Fucker fell asleep!”_ He growls, finally pushing Jean to the side and pulling himself to his knees. His cock is almost red, flushed against his stomach.

_“Come here, Yura.”_ Otabek says, then in English, “Poor Yura.”

“Poor Jean.” Isabella says, and pulls off of Otabek. Yuri scowls and stalks over. Jean curls into the sheets.

“At least he fucking came.” he grumbles, sitting on the bed next to them. Otabek reaches over and pulls him closer by his forearm. Yuri obliges and slides into his side.

_“Wanna join us? Do you want me to make you come?”_ Otabek asks, rubbing a hand along his upper arm with one hand and pulling his own condom off with the other. He knows the state Yuri’s in, so fucked-out and needy, and he doesn’t expect an actual answer so much as he knows Yuri needs reassurance that he’ll get off. Otabek reaches down and runs his hands over Yuri’s stomach, lower, and grips the base of his straining cock.

“Please.” Yuri breathes, burying his face into Otabek’s neck.

“Yuri?” Isabella is kneeling on the other side of him, her voice gentle. She touches his shoulder gingerly, unsure of how far within his boundaries she lies. “Can I touch you too?”

Yuri opens his eyes and looks up at her.

_“Yeah.”_ he says softly, then runs his hand up the curve of her waist, eyes big as saucers. Isabella leans down and kisses his cheek, and Yuri reaches to gently take her jaw and kiss her full on the mouth. Otabek strokes him, and gets an idea.

 

Isabella pulls away slowly, her mouth curved into one of her cheeky half-smiles. Her and Otabek exchange grins, and then Otabek lets go of his cock.

“I have an idea, babe. Just relax.” Yuri feels Otabek slide his arms under his armpits, and then he’s being hoisted to the top of the bed. Isabella crawls behind him. He hopes she doesn’t notice how he watches her breasts. She has to. _Fuck it_.

Otabek leans against the headboard, and pulls Yuri flush against his chest. It’s a position they’d taken turns with when they first started dating, before trying penetrative sex. ‘I’ll jerk you off like this, it’ll be hot, tell me what you like.’ Same as so many times before, Otabek wraps an arm around Yuri’s waist, but now leaves his cock to lay untouched against his stomach. Yuri squirms against him, craving contact.

Isabella crawls between his legs, leans forward, wraps her arms around both of them.

Ah.

Otabek had probably planned out this whole shebang. Probably had a spreadsheet on his laptop with all possible combinations of partners and orgasms. _If Y does not come with J, and I and O have already finished, Y is a candidate for position 6._ Yuri wouldn’t hold it against him.

Isabella is kissing him again, and kissing Otabek, and it’s so wet and warm and he bucks against someone’s hand. He feels Isabella’s thighs and breasts against him, and he snakes a hand between them to feel. She moans into his mouth as he squeezes a nipple between his fingers. He feels drunker than before, the heady smell of sex and Isabella’s perfume and sweat making him dizzy.

“Yuri, you like playing with my tits?”

Years ago, when Yuri had gone to Hasetsu for the first time and had spent most of his nights fuming in the Katsuki’s hot guest room, a particular fantasy had risen from the hormone-frenzied depths of his teenage mind that he had used to put himself to sleep. 

At the beginning of his stay, Yuuri and him had stopped by the Nishigori’s one afternoon during their run so Yuuri could pick up a spare key to Ice Castle. Yuuko had been in the back yard with the triplets, a hose, and a half-filled kiddie pool. She had been wearing a light blue tank top, nothing underneath. The girls had water guns. Until Yuuri and Yuri showed up, she had been their only target. 

Yuri doesn’t have a lot of recurring fantasies, or at least ones that him and Otabek haven’t played out. He hadn’t thought about his 15-year-old obssession with Yuuko Nishigori’s tits in years. He looks down and uses both hands to squeeze Isabella’s breasts together, let them fall, roll her nipples over his palms. He feels Otabek suck at his neck, pinch Yuri’s own nipple as if in response.

“Please...I need…” Yuri isn’t sure if he used the right language or not, but he feels Otabek shift back, and Isabella grip him around his thighs, and his ass drag forward. Isabella’s mouth is on him, so wet and hot, and although he had been half-considering playing around with her until Otabek got hard again and then asking him to fuck him, Yuri realizes another possibility.

Isabella seems to have already thought of it.

She pulls off of him wetly and presses her chest against him, trails a nipple up his shaft and to the head. He’s so very close. Otabek is pinching him, he’s sure his own nipples will be raw and sore tomorrow. She presses her breasts together, trapping him, and he watches the head of his own cock disappear and reappear against her creamy skin. Otabek is mumbling something in his ear in Kazakh, but he’s too far gone to attempt to understand. He spills onto her skin, and his own stomach, and hears them both exclaim, _“Yuri, oh, Yuri…”_

***

The next day, Yuri makes it to the pool, moves Mila’s shit off of a shaded lounge chair to claim it as his own (she was going on about wanting a tan anyway), and plants his ass. He’s fucking hungover. After talking him into joining them screw, they had talked him into joining them drink in him and Otabek’s room until four. They had at least all been thoughtful enough to wander back to pass out in bed with Jean afterwards, as one big tangle of debauched limbs. Yuri had woken up sandwiched between the boys. He’s pretty sure he still smells like Jean.

_When did he start calling him Jean._

“Where were you last night? I texted you like fifty times.” Mila barks, planting a hand on her hip in front of Yuri. He doesn’t open his eyes, but he knows that’s what she’s doing.

“We stayed in.”

“You guys are fucking old men.”

“Yep.” Yuri replies, turning over and throwing a towel over his face.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading.
> 
> Find me on tumblr, topdollarwitch. fic tumblr: witchsvoid


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